


Chosen

by homeric



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Friendship, Multi, Sexy Times, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23157079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homeric/pseuds/homeric
Summary: AU. In a world that has gone to hell seven men unite to defend the weak, but in the end only the strongest will survive, and it might not be only their lives on the line.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Guinevere
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. The Beginning

Disclaimer: nothing you recognize belongs to me.  
Characters belong to Bruckheimer Films, premise belongs to me, but there's influences from half a dozen post apocalyptic films in there; I'll put my own spin on things though. This will not follow the film's plot for obvious reasons!

There were several dozen religious cults that predicted the end of the world in the years before TXzero swept through its population, but none of them got it right. There wasn't any rain of fire, nor were groups of believers suddenly whisked away by a heavenly elevator, beamed up by spaceships or obliterated by rogue meteors. As T.S. Eliot had written with uncanny prescience; the world, or at least the world as everyone knew it, died "not with a bang but a whimper."  
The virus spread in a matter of weeks. First as a strange illness afflicting a couple of fishermen in the Galapogas islands - more of a curiosity to the science community than any real threat - before it rampaged out of control. There was no established pattern that it adhered to: it was airborne, that at least the few scientists who lived long enough to record and share their data agreed on, but as to what it was or where it had come from, they had no idea. By the time the first investigators had started to show symptoms their colleagues were already on planes back to America and Switzerland. When they started to show signs of illness, dying within days of internal bleeding and respiratory failure that refused to respond to anything even the most cutting edge medical advancements had to offer, it was clear that there was a problem. Their respective governments did their best to contain the risk, but by then it was already far too late.   
The cabin crew ferrying the unfortunate scientists had infected other planes within twenty four hours, unwittingly spreading the contagion. A simple sneeze in a crowded airport infected two dozen other people who in turn infected a hundred others boarding different planes, and more worried about plummeting to their deaths than something microscopic whirling around the recycled air they shared with their fellow passengers. Within two weeks hospitals were unable to cope with the sheer numbers of dead and dying, within three chaos reigned and the hastily assembled military forces were as decimated as the rest of the population.  
One accusation that could not be levelled at whatever God had struck down his children was the lack of a sense of humour. While perhaps two percent of the general population seemed to be naturally immune to the virus, the figure rose much higher; as much as ninety percent, when it came to the high security prison population. The few scientists that survived the virus speculated that it might have had something to do with practice of "tagging" criminals with a small chip that emitted a very low amount of radiation, but there was no conclusive proof either way. Whatever the reasons, it was not long before most of the prisoners turned on their guards, freeing themselves and others, and forming gangs that rampaged through what was left of Britain. Terrified and starving, the remaining population moved north and huddled in small communities, protected by a military that operated in small cells, commanded by the Prime Minister and his cabinet. But as the year went on, communication of any kind faltered, and as the military found themselves growing short of supplies and ammunition, the gangs to the south strengthened and united under the banner of a man who was known only as Saxon.  
The Theta Base, Hadrian's Wall. March 3rd 2014   
It had been eleven months, eighteen days and.. Commander Castus looked at his watch, shook it and sighed. A measure of hours less than an a dozen but more than six since the world had officially gone to hell. The battered Rolex that had served him since his graduation from military academy had chosen this of all times to give up the ghost, and he unfastened it from his wrist and let it drop to ground with a pang of regret.  
It had been worth something, less than a year ago, but now it was nothing more than a useless reminder that everything had an expiration date that invariably came too soon. Leaving it glittering prettily in the rough grass, Arthur ground the embers of his cigarette into the ground and looked around warily. All seemed quiet. The turrets that punctuated the double barbed wire fence were silent, and beyond the safety of the "Wall", nothing stirred.  
Not that it didn't mean anything was watching of course.  
Running a hand through his dark hair, Castus headed towards the barracks; utilitarian in their neat concrete uniformity and illuminated in the darkness: little boxes holding little pockets of humanity in what was still called "Great Britain" by those who had a sense of irony. A couple of guards nodded to him as he passed. Mostly younger soldiers, either sullen or over eager to please. Arthur didn't pay them much mind beyond a brief nod of acknowledgement. His rank and reputation made him a hero of sorts to some of the more easily led lads at the base, but the admiration in their eyes chafed at him sometimes. His victories had come at a cost, and while he had tried to lead the men under his command as best he could, in the early days of the war they had all been ill prepared and ill informed of the risks they faced. There were almost three dozen graves in the cemetery at the top of the hill that bore witness to that particular fact. The latest, a man by the name of Ford; a good, solid soldier who had been known for his calmness under fire, had been laid to rest only a couple of days ago. They were learning, he and the rest of his comrades, but too slowly, and though they were struggling to understand their enemies, their enemies seemed to have an almost psychic ability when it came to understanding them.  
Pushing open the door to the central building, Arthur automatically kicked the mud from his boots and refastened the top buttons of his camouflage shirt. General Germanius might be a royal prick, but getting in and out of the meeting he had been summoned to would go a lot more smoothly if he looked presentable while he was nodding politely and planning to ignore most of his orders. Squaring his shoulders, he rapped sharply on the heavy door at the end of the hallway and entered the fort's inner sanctum.  
The general made no attempt to rise when his commander entered, merely leaning over the wide expanse of his desk (mahogany, seventeenth century, Arthur thought distractedly) and giving the younger man a tight smile.  
"Sit." He nodded towards a well stuffed chair. "Would you like a drink? Whisky? Brandy?"  
Arthur was sorely tempted, but didn't let his eyes flicker over to the well stocked drinks cabinet. Half the population out there were living in poverty and the man charged with protecting them was acting as though he were a member of a country club. All he wanted was to get out of there as soon as possible and perhaps join what was left of his men in a game of cards.  
"I must congratulate you on your last mission," Germanius said approvingly. "Seventeen of the north Saxon mob dead, and only one fatality; truly you train your men well."  
"It was one fatality too many," Arthur snapped before thinking. Noting the brief flash of satisfaction in the General's eyes, he had a sudden uneasy feeling that he'd walked into a trap. Moderating his tone, he continued more calmly. "The men fought well, they'd fight even better if they were better supplied, Sir. At close range the automatics don't.."  
"Arthur, Arthur." Germanius waved his arguments away with no little condescension. "If we but only had the resources. But that was not what I wished to speak to you about. Given your talent for leadership I cannot help but feel that you are underused in the position you are now. Therefore I am transferring you."  
Arthur felt his heart sink, but held his tongue. It was obvious that the older man was looking for some sort of reaction and he was determined not to give him the satisfaction.  
"We have a new group of men fresh in today. Not particularly well trained but skilled. I'm going to give you three months to see what you can do with them - there are some particularly delicate assignments that I've ear marked for them provided that you can whip them into shape." He gave a small smile, little sharp incisors gleaming white behind his fleshy lower lip. "And I'm sure that you can. I would hate to be disappointed in you Commander, especially given your pedigree."  
I'm not a fucking show dog and I know exactly what you are doing, Arthur thought, forcing the burn of anger down while keeping his expression impassive.  
"And what of my men?" He asked. "Are they to be incorporated into this troop?"  
"Your men?" The General's voice was tinged with a faint surprise that belied the watchfulness of his eyes. "They're on their way to Manchester. You should be proud of them - General Harrison was quite adamant that they alone were good enough."  
"They've already left?" Castus phrased it as a question, but he already knew the answer. To ask about the men he had led, fought beside and cared about would be used as another excuse for a lecture on how the very few "elite"( private school, military academy, dusty medals grandad got out when he was pissed at Christmas and raved about past glories) left should stick together. Caring about the men you led to death was sentimental nonsense. Protect your position and damn the rest for the greater good.  
"Half an hour ago." The General waited for a moment, obviously hoping for a protest, but Arthur remained silent. Focusing on the heavy paperweight that sat upon the desk, he noticed the preserved form of a butterfly trapped in the green glass, and wondered if it would fly free if he smashed the object into his superior's face.  
Obviously disappointed by the commander's lack of response, the General rose to his feet and edged around the desk.  
"Well then, I think it's time you met your new troop, don't you?"  
Arthur merely nodded, following the portly General out of the room and down the corridor. Instead of moving towards the usual briefing rooms that were used for new arrivals and meetings, Germanius walked down the hall and started down the service stairs that led to the dining hall in the bunker below. The noise escalated as they descended the stairs; the low hum of chatter interspersed with laughter and the occasional voice raised in anger. A typical mealtime at the fort, but one that Arthur wasn't sure why they were interrupting. Expecting the General to make his presence known and make a big announcement, he was surprised when he stopped before entering the hall, both of them still concealed in the shadows of the stairwell.  
"Well, commander," Germanius said with a hint of amusement. "First table on the left, what do you think?"  
Five men were sat around a long table and although the wariness of their eyes and the stiffness of their postures indicated that they were ill at ease and had recognized the new arrivals, none of them looked up.  
Samartians, Arthur thought automatically. He didn't need to look at the smile, so polite and yet so eloquent, that Germanius gave to realize that he had been royally screwed over.  
His new assignment wasn't training inexperienced soldiers and leading them into strategic attacks against the enemy, nor even the less showy but no less necessary reconnaissance missions he'd been anticipating. Every one of the men had a number tattooed across the back of their neck.  
Convicts.  
Convicts from Samartian prison, the only penitentiary left that had thought it necessary to not only chip but tattoo the men locked behind its gates. Men that made up a significant portion of the Saxon gangs.  
Mentally grabbing hold of his panic and squashing it down, Arthur ran the appraising eyes of a soldier over the five men. One sat on the edge of the bench, dark hair long enough to conceal his expression but not the fact that he had obviously realized that they were being watched. Beside him two stocky men in their forties ate. The shorter of the two traded what must have been an insult with the blond man sat opposite, before being interrupted by a lad who looked far too young to have earned his place in one of the UK's more notorious prisons . The group were mismatched by age, build, and most likely combat experience, and the regulation boots and generic cammo attire did nothing to disguise them among the two hundred or so men around them wearing the exact same clothing. The men might eat with soldiers but they held themselves with a defiance and a wariness that was wholly at odds with the pack like solidarity of those around them.  
"Were they captured or are they volunteers?" Arthur asked quietly. "Sir," he added with as little anger as he could.  
"Volunteers, would you believe it." Germanius's voice echoed the amusement that flashed within his eyes as he watched the small group. "Believe me, if they were spies they would have talked by now. Vulpine was more than persuasive when he interviewed them."  
I'll bet, the commander thought to himself. What the little red haired interrogator lacked in height he more than made up for in imagination when it came to prising secrets from those deemed untrustworthy. And now he would have to gain some of that trust back and pretend that, as convicts, they wouldn't be offered up as cannon fodder without hesitation by the people they had switched allegiances to help save.   
"Five isn't many sir," he said quietly.  
"Six." There was an expression on the General's face that made every muscle in Arthur's body tense as though waiting for a blow. Following the older man's gaze at first all he noticed was the back of the man's head. The tattoo on the neck marked him as a Samartian convict, but the dark hair curling over the nape would cover it in a few short months if left untrimmed. It always did grow too fast, Arthur thought illogically. The man turned away from the poker game he'd been participating in and for a moment their eyes met. Pausing for barely a second, the man's dark eyes skittered away and he rejoined the rest of the prisoners, pointedly ignoring the watchers.  
"Lancelot." Arthur's voice came out as barely more than a croak.  
General Germanius gave a smile of quiet satisfaction.  
"He came in with three of the others a week ago, I thought it only fair that you be the one to train him. Brothers in arms and all that? With a little discipline he might yet follow in his big brother's footsteps." When the young commander didn't answer him, he gave a huff of irritation. Castus had resolutely refused to rise to any bait he had given, much to his chagrin. Nor had he shown the proper deference that should be shown to a man of his rank. Cocky bastard doesn't know his place, Germanius thought irritably. He'd thought acquiring the commander's black sheep of a brother might provide a little entertainment, but it seemed that the man was determined to deny him that as well.  
"Are there any further orders, Sir?" Arthur's words were calm and controlled; he could have been talking about the weather, and irritated and eager to escape the lower echelons of the camp, the General merely turned to ascend the stairs.  
"The paperwork is with Jols - he's sorted their barracks out, have your men ready for combat in four days." He paused halfway up the stairs. "And don't give them any live ammunition until you know which side they'll be using it on."  
The insults registered, but Arthur was too preoccupied to be angry. Waiting until Germanius was out of sight, he descended the last few stairs and approached his new platoon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There will be more swearing than I usually use in my fics, simply because it doesn't feel right writing the dialogue without it. Most of the characters are prisoners or in the army and since their circumstances are pretty gritty, so is their language. Just a warning for those that aren't keen on that sort of thing.

Lancelot felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise with the sure but inexplicable feeling that he was being watched, and took care not to let his unease affect his behavior. The cards that he had been dealt weren't bad; certainly good enough for him to have bluffed convincingly, but the poker game he had instigated with a few bored soldiers had suddenly lost its appeal. Getting up from the table and brushing away the jibes of other players, he merely gave an eloquent shrug and turned back to the motley group of men he had joined a few weeks before. He kept his gaze casual as it swept around the dining hall, but the sight of the two men partially hidden in the shadows jolted him enough that there was no way that he could disguise his reaction.

Arthur.

The familiar mask he used when dealing with members of his family clicked into place almost without thinking, and he gave his older brother a sardonic smile to mask the churning emotions that threatened to choke him. Taking a few steps over to the table occupied by his fellow ex prisoners, he took a deep swallow of his lager (low alcohol content - those who must be obeyed didn't want their grunts getting too wasted - but better than nothing) and placed it on the table with studied nonchalance. Across from him, Tristan gave an almost inaudible snort of amusement, and Lancelot met his strange amber eyes with irritation.

"Something wrong Tristan?" He snapped, welcoming a diversion to his own conflicted thoughts.

The older man merely shrugged, lazily watching him with a half smile upon his face.

"If that's your poker face then it's no surprise you always lose," he said with a shrug. "No self control."

"And you'd know all about self control, would you Tristan?" Lancelot retorted. "How many Saxon scum had you killed when I met you? Ten? Twenty? Talk about bloodlust - you make Hannibal Lector look like the fucking Easter Bunny."

Tristan merely shrugged a sinewy shoulder and finished his drink. "A little old to be still believing in the Easter Bunny aren't you?" He said without rancor.

Lancelot got to his feet, familiar anger wiping away any common sense, before someone grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back down onto the bench . He made a brief attempt to struggle, but gave up when he met Dagonet's solemn grey eyes. Dag was built like the proverbial brick shit house, and although he was calm and quiet usually, he certainly wasn't to be messed with.

"We have enough fights ahead of us without starting with each other," the big man said firmly. "I suggest you calm down."

The calm, level tone reminded Lancelot for a painful moment of Arthur. Arthur the voice of reason, Arthur who cast a shadow so long that he always felt lost in the darkness. Arthur who had punched out two dealers, dragged him out of the junkie den he'd spent a week tripping his tits off in, and had cried when he'd taken him home and tried to clean him up. That last memory was a little too sharp and much to painful. Unconsciously rubbing the faint bumps of scar tissue at the crook of his elbow, he shoved the thoughts away and turned his attention back to the stairwell. His brother was still talking to that sly looking man. From the way that they kept glancing over at their table the little group of Samartian prisoners were obviously the subject of the conversation. What did he and the others have to look forward to? Lancelot wondered with dark amusement. Guinea pig duty for some mad scientist - hell he'd seen enough films; bases like this always had a nutter in a white coat down in the basement carving people up for experiments or satanic voodoo crap. Or maybe they'd get lucky and just be used as bait or canon fodder. With tired resignation he acknowledged to himself that while the first theory was unlikely, the second was very likely fact. Why the hell had he volunteered for this anyway?

"You OK, Lance?" Gawain's low voice sounded concerned, and Lancelot managed to shake his head and give a small smile. The blond watched him steadily with disconcertingly blue eyes, and his smile became a little more genuine. You'd think Gawain had enough on his plate keeping an eye on the young hot head, he thought, without worrying about the rest of us as well.

"Fine." He gave a shrug and felt the heavy weight of Dagonet's hand lift from his shoulder. "Bit stir crazy that's all."

"Yeah, well be glad of it lad," Bors advised. Rolling his broad shoulders, he looked over to the rest of the soldiers. "We'll be out god knows where with them soon enough and we won't exactly be high up on the pecking order neither. Be lucky to get enough time to sleep, let alone get bored."

"Nice attempt at optimism there," Galahad said sarcastically. "I didn't know you were such an authority on military politics, Bors. Weren't you a brick layer before you got banged up?"

"Gal.." Gawain warned, but it was too late.

Bors was on his feet with a swiftness that belied his solid bulk. "Look sonny, I was a squaddie when your mum was still in training bras, don't you.."

"Leave my mother out of this!" Galahad rose up and looked set to leap over the table had Gawain not grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. Gasping at the sudden pain, the younger man glared at his friend and opened his mouth to argue, but Dagonet gave him a look that made him think twice. Noting that the big man had clamped a hand on Bors's arm to restrain him, Lancelot gave a sudden laugh that had all of the men staring at him.

"Jesus, Dag," Lancelot said with a chuckle. "You're wasted here, you should have been in the bloody United Nations."

The tension lifted and Bors gave a short bark of a laugh, his temper forgotten as soon as it had kindled. Gawain grinned and even Galahad suppressed a smile, although he gave Gawain a black look and made a show of rolling his shoulder.

"Don't I wish," Dagonet grumbled. "It'd be a hell of a lot easier than trying to keep you lot from each other's throats."

"We've got company," Tristan said quietly, and immediately the laughter stopped. It was strange, Lancelot mused. Tristan never raised his voice, but when he spoke everyone always listened. As always he was right - the shaggy dark hair might always seem to be falling into his eyes, but it certainly didn't affect the way he always seemed to be almost preternaturally aware of everything around him.

Arthur was walking towards them, and squashing down the strange mixture of joy, resentment, guilt and fear, Lancelot rearranged his features into the faint smirk that had always seemed to irritate his older brother. Arthur himself was playing hard to read as well, he noticed. He hadn't changed much since he'd last seen him (but don't think about that, not now, not ever); there were a few more lines bracketing his eyes and his hair was shorter - he looked a lot like their father, Lancelot thought with a little disquiet. His bearing was confident, his steps even, and despite himself the younger man felt him respond to the quiet authority. From the silent watchfulness of the men beside him, they weren't immune from it either.

"Gentlemen." He stopped at the head of the table and looked at them with calm appraisal. "I am Commander Castus. As of today you have been assigned to my authority, both to train and lead in combat. As you are well aware, we need as many trained and willing fighters as possible to counter the Saxon attacks. To that end as far as I am concerned you were all born today. I have no interest in your histories, your backgrounds or why you came to be here. I will try to treat you fairly and negotiate for the same privileges that are enjoyed by other soldiers from less questionable backgrounds. In turn I expect nothing less than full and unquestioning obedience and diligence in your duties. If we are to survive we must work as a cohesive team."

Fuck, he really has turned into father, Lancelot thought with surprised awe.

"Finish your drinks and be at meeting room seven, next to the barracks, by," he glanced at the big clock "Four o clock. There you will be debriefed and shown to your accommodation." With a curt nod, he turned as though anticipating that no-one would dare question anything he had said, and walked away, pausing only briefly to exchange a few words with another high ranking soldier.

Bors let a deep breath and looked around the table.

"Well lads, what do you reckon?"

Gawain shrugged. "Makes a nice change not being addressed as "Samartian scum". I could get used to that."

"D'you reckon he lost a bet or something?" Gawain wondered. "I mean he seemed alright - competent . I thought they'd dump some div who didn't know a rifle from his arse on us instead of wasting a decent soldier."

"Now who's Mr Optimism?" Bors mocked. "What about you, Dag."

The bigger man shrugged and swallowed the rest of his drink. "Only time will tell. I believe we could have done worse though."

It took a moment before Lancelot realized that he had been asked a question. Glancing up in surprise, he briefly met Tristan's eyes and saw a knowingness in them that made him decidedly uncomfortable.

"What?"

"He said what do reckon of our new boss," Galahad repeated.

Lancelot hesitated. There were two courses of action he could take: feign ignorance and hope Arthur kept quiet about their relationship, or come clean. After a brief internal struggle which lasted half a second - there was no choice really; the truth was bound to come out sooner or later and he couldn't risk losing the trust of men who he would have to rely on to back him up in battle- he confessed.

"He's a good man, a good soldier." Picking up his glass he took a steadying gulp of the weak drink and wished it was whisky instead. "He's also my brother."

There was a brief moment of stunned silence before several men started asking questions at once.

"Shut up," Tristan said quietly, and as usual the chatter stopped.

Lancelot shrugged as though it was no big deal. " Arthur took the military route, I took whatever I could snort, shoot up or swallow. It lead to divergent lifestyles, what can I say?" He gave a brief smile which fell decidedly flat. "We haven't seen each other in three years."

"Is that why he's been assigned us lot then d'you reckon?" Galahad asked. "Because of you?"

Lancelot shook his head. "I doubt it. I know Arthur, and he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Besides even if he is a commander, I can't see them letting him pick and choose his assignments like that, he's too good to waste on something that he wants for personal reasons." Plus the last time I saw him I told him that I never wanted to see him again and almost stabbed him with a kitchen knife, he thought but did not say aloud.

"Fate sometimes moves in mysterious ways," Tristan remarked idly.

Galahad snorted with amusement. "Ooh listen to Madame Mystic over there, never would have guessed you'd be into that mumbo-jumbo Tristan. 'That what those tat's are for?" He gestured at the tribal tattoos that marked the older man's cheeks. "Leylines to the afterlife?"

"No." The word was spoken softly, but there was a look in the man's eyes that had Lancelot tensing in-case Tristan tried to break the boy's neck. For once in his life Galahad saw sense and shut up instantly.

"Maybe it'll work to our advantage," Gawain said hopefully. "There's got to be a few perks to being the Commander's brother right, Lancelot?"

The other man shrugged. Personally he doubted it - favoritism didn't really go with Arthur's innate sense of fair play.

"Time to go," Dag announced, nodding at the clock and getting to his feet. The other's followed his lead, Bors, Galahad and Gawain speculating on the conditions of their living quarters and whether there would be any women stationed nearby, Tristan quiet and intent, stalking past the other soldiers without looking at them. Lancelot brought up the rear, feeling miserable and confused and without any idea how he and his brother were going to tolerate being in the same room together, let alone fight side by side.


	3. Reluctant Comrades

The view out of the window was nothing if not depressing.

Arthur watched the people go about their business in the camp behind the barracks; the women and children quiet and competent as they went about their everyday tasks The men checking fences and chopping lumber for the fireplaces. Compared to some of the pitiful excuses of habitation he had seen in the more isolated areas of the country, the camp wasn't that bad. The water was clean and plentiful, medical supplies were available, and for the most part the people sheltered by the wall were protected from Saxon gang attacks. But there was a difference between living and surviving that the Commander could not have put into words until the virus had robbed most of the population of their lives, and the rest of any hope. Watching as two boys made their way carefully down the central path, balancing a bucket of water between them, Commander Castus felt a sudden pang of sadness. Turn back the clock twenty years and it could have been him and Lancelot doggedly facing the odds together. Brothers until the end, they'd sworn. And look how well that had turned out.

Addiction, jealousy and recrimination had torn them apart, but now it seemed they had a second chance. One he would take, he told himself firmly. Finding his brother alive was a blessing not a curse wasn't it?

Unaccountably nervous, Arthur opened the window, flicked the catch and then shut it again. He had spoken to Lancelot (alright not specifically), had given orders to his new troop (although he hadn't given them a chance to say two words to him) and had laid down the law (his law, and since when had he become as rigid and unyielding as his father?). So why did he feel as though he had lost the first round of a battle not of his choosing?

Flopping back into the hard plastic chair, Arthur reached for the files that Jols had placed upon his desk beside a tumbler of whisky. The files he had requested, the whisky he had not. Apparently the clerk had deemed the alcohol necessary, and with a wry grin Arthur gave a silent toast to him. One of the only perks of his position was having the solemn man assigned to him; a barrel of laughs Jols might not be, but he had an uncanny ability to anticipate any eventuality and prepare for it without being asked.

Flicking open the first folder, Arthur skimmed through the contents, ignoring anything other than the bare facts pertaining to each of the men allocated to him. Descriptions of their crimes were described in soulless detail as was any account of how the men had served their prison time. Every detail spelled out in black and white. Twenty minutes later, the Commander had enough information to leave him with far more questions than answers. Dagonet and Bors's case seemed fairly straight forward; while murder might not be excusable, Arthur could certainly see why the two cousins had been driven to it. The two younger men were more difficult to judge; either they were very unlucky or very good actors. The jury which had convicted Gawain and Galahad had seemed as conflicted as the evidence against the two men was dubious. Arthur tossed Lancelot's file aside without reading it. There was nothing printed on the low quality paper that he couldn't recreate in inglorious Technicolor if he allowed himself the luxury of revisiting old memories.

And then there was the last file. The largest and by far the most disturbing. Tristan Kelly had apparently spent most of his life as gamekeeper to a large estate just outside Edinburgh . Not a hint of trouble noted until his wife and young son had been killed in an arson attack. After that the man had apparently lost his mind, brutally murdering several peers of the realm who had been unlucky enough to be staying at the hunting lodge he was in charge of. Justice had been swift - life without any chance of parole, but unfortunately or fortunately for him the Txzero virus was faster. Tristan had spent only a couple of weeks incarcerated before the world went to hell.

All of the men placed under his command were convicted killers, and yet all had voluntarily approached the camp and handed over their weapons to men who had nothing but contempt for them. Why?

Rubbing a hand wearily over his forehead, Arthur fought the craving for a cigarette. Rations were tight, and he had a feeling he'd need the nicotine fix more come the evening. Knocking back the last of the whisky instead, he tidied away the files and concentrated on forming a plan of action. That the men he had been assigned were viewed as expendable by his superiors he had no doubt. He'd been given only a few days to knock them into shape before they'd be chucked out onto the front line, probably as decoys to take the heat off the "real" soldiers. The Saxon mob they would face would be ruthless, and although not formally trained in the traditional sense, more than capable with the weapons they had acquired.

He'd have to find out what if any skills his new troop had and attempt to establish some sort of trust between them fast, otherwise he might as well just put a bullet in their heads now and save the enemy the bother.

The sound of heavy footsteps outside, brought him out of his thoughts, and glancing at the clock on his desk, Arthur realized that it was time for the meeting. At least the men were punctual, he thought wryly. A sharp knock signaled Jols's arrival, and Arthur nodded when the clerk poked his head around the door and informed him of the men waiting outside.

"Bring them in," he said quietly.

The soldiers entered with a wary curiosity disguised as bravado that reminded Arthur of the stray dogs that slunk around the back of the dining hall looking for scraps. The two oldest (Dagonet and Bors, cousins united by both blood and the murder of a convicted pedophile, Arthur remembered), stood side by side, dominating the room both by their size and the force of their quiet confidence. A little behind them two younger men stood looking a little less self-assured, their curiosity as they appraised him evident. Gawain and Galahad. They looked different from the mug shots in their files - Galahad was missing the beard he had sported and Gawain had lost a good foot of tangled blond dreadlocks. They looked fit and well muscled though, and that boded well, Arthur thought. Too many stragglers who made their way to the Wall were so malnourished that lifting a rifle would have been an effort, let alone firing it.

And then there was Tristan Kelly. The man stood a little way from the rest of the group, his face expressionless. He sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs when Arthur asked them to be seated and didn't say anything, but Arthur had the uncomfortable feeling that the dark haired man was studying him and reserving judgement as to whether he was worth following. A little irritated at being unnerved, (God, hadn't he lead a dozen troops through hell and back , and got most of them back alive? earning himself a fearsome reputation in the meantime?) Castus made their position clear, outlining the risks they would be taking without attempting to sugar coat the truth. None of the men said anything as he told them of the training they would be given and why it would be needed. When asked, Tristan, Bors, Dagonet and Gawain admitted to having some fire arms training; Gawain having shot rabbits at his family's farm when he was younger, Bors and Dagonet being ex military and seemingly fairly knowledgeable, although perhaps not quite up to date with some of the more recent developments in technology. Tristan had apparently been used to culling deer when it was needed and was proficient with a rifle.

It was better than Arthur had hoped, if not as good as he might have wished. The youngest, Galahad, was the only member of the group who had no experience with guns, but from the lad's quiet concentration, Arthur wasn't too worried. All the men would have new skills to learn in the next couple of days and from what his instincts told him he would have good students. Noting the way the shadows had lengthened in the room, Commander Castus got to his feet.

"I'll show you to your quarters."

Not his job really, but he'd watched and learned enough to know that separating himself from his men now would only backfire in the long run. The men fell into almost military formation behind him and Arthur had to stifle a smile. Bors and Dagonet, Gawain and Galahad. The two pairs matched each other step for step, Tristan watching their back as though they were in the open and not in one of the safest buildings in Britain. Lancelot walked beside the older man, but had none of his fluid grace. Meeting his younger brother's eyes, Arthur steeled himself for what he had to do.

Jols had, as usual, carried out his duties flawlessly. The quarters awaiting his men were not luxurious in any shape or form, but neither were they inferior to any of the other soldiers' accommodation. Each room had a bed with a mattress and a couple of blankets, a chest of draws and a window that looked out towards the tangle of barbed wire that surrounded the barracks. Allocating each room to the men, Castus waited until he and Lancelot were alone before following his brother into his room and closing the door behind them.

Lancelot walked over to the window, but gave the view only a passing glance. Looking back towards Arthur he turned and leaned against the wall.

"Hey, bruv," he said quietly. "Bet you weren't expecting this."

Arthur stayed where he was. A big part of him wanted nothing more than to cross the room and hug the brother he had loved despite his flaws, but acknowledging that Lancelot would most likely shy away from such overt shows of affection, he stayed where he was.

"No." Arthur couldn't help the wry grin that softened his expression. "Should have known that you of all people would have been bloody minded enough to survive though. What did you do? Stay alive just to piss me off?"

Lancelot grinned, dark eyes gleaming, (mother's eyes, Arthur noted. Either wicked or warm).

"Gotta get my kicks somehow," he said with a nonchalance that fell only slightly short of being genuine. "I'm glad that I got to see you turn into dad though: that whole speech in the canteen - what did you do, practice it in front of the mirror?"

"Didn't have time." Arthur answered before the familiar irritation he felt led to him saying something he would regret. "Look.."

"Yeah, you're the boss, I get it." Lancelot slumped onto the bed and crossed his arms. "Don't worry, I'll be a good little boy and do as I'm told."

"That wasn't.." Arthur caught himself before he lost his temper. Lancelot was watching him with a familiar sardonic smile, and he pushed his anger away. There was more at stake here than family history. "The men you are with. Can I trust them?"

It was a bold question, but Lancelot didn't hesitate when it came to answering.

"They're good men. But you already know that don't you? You could have got them transferred if you had really wanted to." He watched his elder brother sadly. "Galahad, Gawain and Dag'll follow you without question, Bors'll bitch but he'll follow his cousin. Tristan will slaughter half the country to protect you if he thinks you're worth saving, and will walk away if he thinks you aren't."

"And you?" The distance between he and his brother could have been crossed in a matter of steps, but for the moment it could have been as wide as the Atlantic ocean. Lancelot opened his mouth to speak , but before he could reply, an explosion rocked the building, sending both men tumbling to the floor.

Ears ringing, and choking on dust filled air, Arthur reached automatically for the rifle slung over his shoulder and flicked the safety off. Scrabbling towards the doorway he pulled a gun from his boot and tossed it towards his brother. Lancelot caught it effortlessly and slunk over to the other side of the doorway. Saxons? he mouthed.

Arthur nodded and flinched as another explosion rocked the foundations of the barracks. From the looks of things his men might die in combat before they had even had a chance to pick up a rifle.


	4. Ambush

Lancelot rubbed away the dust that was clogging his nose, and shoved himself against the doorway. The explosion had made him temporarily deaf, and he was glad that Arthur merely nodded at his question - anything his brother would have said would have been inaudible. Their room seemed fairly stable; all the dust and debris had been blown in from the corridor, and satisfied that the roof wasn't going to come down on his head in the next couple of minutes, Lancelot made a quick assessment of the weapon that Arthur had thrown him. Glock 10mm, he thought approvingly. Very pretty, but then his brother always did have class. Curving his hand around the solid steel with the muscle memory borne of a junior shooting champion, Lancelot glanced over at Arthur.

The commander was crouched, rifle at the ready. Ducking his head around the door frame quickly, he withdrew it immediately when a hail of gunfire bit chunks out of wall above him. Scuffling backwards, keeping low, he glanced at his brother.

How many? Lancelot mouthed. Arthur raised his free hand and showed three fingers before edging towards the door frame again. Given the angle of the doorway and the position of the attackers, Arthur was far more vulnerable than him, and suddenly more worried than he would admit, Lancelot gestured to get his attention. Play dead, Lancelot mouthed to his brother. Arthur looked at him with confusion, and exasperated that he couldn't speak out loud without betraying his position, Lancelot used the hand not steadying his weapon to point to Arthur and mime shooting himself in the head. When his brother raised an eyebrow, he continued by nodding towards the direction of their attackers and making a walking action with his fingers. Pointing at Arthur and then himself he mimed shooting whoever it was that came to investigate.

The crack of gunfire that pinged large pieces of wood off the door way prevented Arthur from replying for a moment, but the expression on his face was fairly easy to read, Lancelot thought. Somewhere between are you trying to kill me? and are you insane? he reckoned. Before his brother had a chance to answer, he mouthed any better ideas?

Arthur glanced between him and the hallway with evident frustration. They were pinned down and there was only one exit from the barracks - past the attackers. Further along the corridor the rest of the Sarmatians were stationed, but unarmed and with no escape they had no chance against automatic weapons.

For a moment Lancelot thought Arthur was going to refuse; he was after all putting his life in the hands of someone who had managed to screw up everything he'd done before, but to Lancelot's astonishment his brother dropped to the ground, his body credibly crumpled, his rifle by his hand.

Fuck me, Lancelot thought. Suddenly his idea seemed very, very, stupid and very, very dangerous. There were muffled shouts from the corridor and although the distant gunfire carried on, the guns just outside fell silent. The heavy tread of boots thudded closer, and Lancelot tensed, his throat tight, his finger curled around the trigger of the heavy pistol. Closer, closer, they came, and shifting his weight forward slightly, nerves so taut they thrummed, Lancelot waited until a man peered through the doorway, his rifle raised as though to nudge the dead body before him. It took only a millisecond to register the man's long hair and scruffy appearance, before Lancelot raised his gun and splattered the man's brains onto the wall behind him. Leaping to his feet, he dodged into the hallway, keeping low and firing at the two Saxons who were too startled to react as quickly as they should have done. One went down with a scream as he was hit in the thigh and abdomen, but the other was faster. Lancelot felt a bullet slam into the wall beside him, and dodging it the impact knocked him sideways, smacking his head on the wall. Dazed, he only half saw the barrel of the AK 47 as it lowered towards his head before it jerked up and away as a hail of gunfire took half its owner's head off.

"Lance?" Arthur's voice was so tense it hardly sounded like him. "Are you alright?"

His brother hauled him to his feet, hazel eyes running over him worriedly. Lancelot wanted to say that he was fine, but the words choked in his throat when he noticed the wounded guard open his eyes and raise his gun towards Arthur's back.

"Arth…" Before he had a chance to finish the warning, the Saxon's head smacked backwards onto the ground, a kitchen knife buried in his left eye. "What the fuck?" Lancelot murmured, more surprised than shocked.

Arthur let go of Lancelot, who swayed but kept his footing, and turned to the direction the knife had come from, raising his rifle as he did so. Tristan stood in the middle of the corridor, eyes gleaming with an almost feral hunger as he watched the dead man twitching in his last death throes. He seemed not at all worried by the rifle pointed in his direction, and walking forward he ignored the two men and withdrew his knife from the dead Saxon's eye. The squishy sucking noise as the blade came free was something that Lancelot was fairly sure would haunt his nightmares for some time to come.

"Shouldn't turn your back on 'em," he said, wiping the blade on his trousers. "Head, throat or heart - that's the only way to be sure that they stay down when they're hit."

"Tris," Lancelot said weakly. "Have I ever told you that you're really fucking scary sometimes?"

The older man shrugged as though the thought either had not occurred to him or if it had, didn't bother him in the slightest.

"Might want to get the others," he suggested to Arthur who didn't seem to know what to make of the last minute's events. "Building's not stable, don't want to get buried here."

"Right." Arthur blinked and seemed to pull himself together. "You two stay here." Reaching down he picked up the Glock that his brother had dropped, and after a moments hesitation, the rifle one of the dead Saxons had been using. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked Tristan.

The dark haired man gave a small, sardonic smile. "Do bears shit in the woods?"

"You're the gamekeeper, you tell me," Arthur muttered. Handing Tristan the gun, he kept hold of it for a second longer than necessary, never breaking eye contact. The older man gave a tiny nod that might have been acknowledgement before taking the rifle and checking it. "You stay here," Arthur repeated. "No moving out unless I say so or there if there is no other choice. Is that understood?" He pinned Lancelot with a fixed stare, and despite himself the younger man wanted to grin.

Aaaand back to Commander Castus we go, Lancelot thought. Bye, bye, big brother. Resisting the childish urge to give a little sarcastic wave as Arthur made his way down the barracks, Lancelot turned his attention to Tristan. The northerner was running his fingers over the sleek lines of the Ak 47, checking the magazine and the casing with an affection most men reserved for beautiful women.

"Should I leave you two alone?" Lancelot asked with amusement. "Don't know if they've got a boudoir here, but I could ask Arthur." Tristan merely gave him a look of irritation and swung the strap of the gun onto his shoulder. There was gunfire far away, but aside from the sounds of Arthur and the rest of the men talking behind them, they didn't seem to be in any immediate danger. Ignoring the stickiness of blood beneath his boots, Lancelot glanced at the bodies at his feet before turning his attention back to the man beside him. "Where'd you get the knife anyway, Tris?" he asked. "We were all frisked when we got here, where'd you hide it?"

Tristan gave a half shrug, but didn't take his eyes off the corridor. "Nicked it off a soldier in the canteen."

Lancelot thought about that for a moment. Tristan had been with the rest of them the whole time and none of the soldiers had got too close to any of the Samartians. When?" He asked, puzzled.

"When he wasn't looking." The older man sounded faintly irritated, but Lancelot couldn't help pushing him a little.

"Got anything else hidden under the cammos?" he asked somewhat sarcastically.

"You can try and pat me down if you'd like," Tristan snapped. Registering the look in the other man's eyes, Lancelot decided that he most definitely didn't like that idea.

They were saved from making any further conversation by the arrival of Arthur and the rest of the Samartians. All of the ex prisoners looked wired - eyes over bright, muscles tense, Lancelot thought. But then who could blame them? Stuck in cells waiting to be shot brought back memories none of them were willing to face. It was something he'd have to talk about with his brother, he realized. Providing, of course, that there were any barracks left for them to get trapped in in the future.

Arthur walked over to the Saxon Tristan had killed and picked up the dead man's rifle. Checking it quickly, he handed it to Dagonet. Good choice, Lancelot thought. Dag was by far the most level headed of them and a damn good shot as well.

"Do you know how to handle one of these?" his brother asked the big man. Dagonet nodded, his large hands taking the weapon with an ease that could only be borne of familiarity. "Good." Arthur said. "I want you at the back, you're our rear guard. I'm on point, Lancelot, Tristan, I want you both behind us. Bors, Galahad, Gawain. I want you to stay behind us." Unconsciously rubbing his thumb over the barrel of his gun, Lancelot noted the three men's resentment and fear at being led into a potential combat situation with no weapon to defend themselves. Arthur obviously had too, for his next words seemed an attempt to reassure them. "You'll all be armed as soon as it is possible. For now keep an eye out for any hostiles and keep together. "If we can get back to the main building we'll be much better informed and equipped." The building around them groaned, a crack racing up a wall sending a shower of plaster raining down on them, and when Arthur gave the word to move, Lancelot followed him as automatically as the men beside him.

………………………………...............................................................................................................

The light was gold and hazy as they burst out into the open, but quickly adjusting to the light, Arthur jogged swiftly towards the shelter of a large building that had once been used to stable horses and was now a shower block. The angle of the wall provided cover without pinning them down, and gesturing for the men to hunker down beside him, the commander surveyed the surroundings.

To the left of them a building had been reduced to rubble, the smoke thankfully swept by the wind away from the camp. Part of the barbed wire fence had been flattened, the cause fairly obvious by the tank that sat silently in the grass beside the civilian camp. A half dozen bodies littered the ground beside it, but other than the shouts of the soldiers it was fairly quiet. The battle had apparently been over almost as soon as it had begun. Arthur felt a prickle of unease. Either the Saxons had suddenly become very stupid or they were playing another game entirely. Tanks were not easy to come about, nor was fuel or the ammunition that had levelled the barracks. Why waste them by attacking without enough men to be useful once the parameter had been breached?

With a soldier's instinct, Arthur felt before he heard the man approaching. Keeping low to the ground as he made his way forward, Dagonet crouched down and levelled solemn grey eyes upon him.

"Whatever happened here, we missed it," he said quietly. "Everyone out there is clean up not combat. Tristan's checking things out from a better vantage point, but it looks like the Saxons are either dead or gone."

Arthur was inclined to believe the big ex-squaddie; his words echoed his own thoughts precisely. Opening his mouth to answer, he paused. "Tristan's at a better vantage point?"

Dagonet looked slightly uncomfortable. "He's on the roof," he replied eventually.

The roof. Right. Of Course. Getting to his feet, Arthur nodded at the men awaiting his instructions and gestured for them to get up.

"Drop your guns," he said quietly but firmly. Lancelot opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur shook his head. "In-case you hadn't noticed, most of the men here aren't very keen on you lot. Go out there with a weapon when the enemy aren't firing and there's fair odds you'll get shot whether your gun is pointed at them, loaded, or even being held upside down. Don't make things easy for them."

"Them?" Galahad looked at Arthur with faint hostility. "Aren't you one of them?"

Arthur almost laughed. The lad had been about to get shot by Saxons and have a building fall on his head, and he still had enough energy for an argument.

"I," he said calmly, "am the man in charge of getting you killed in combat. I have no intention of letting you get your brains splattered onto the barracks lawn before I've given the Saxons a fair go at you."

Gawain laughed, Galahad looked mutinous and Bors nudged a not entirely impassive Dagonet.

"Need to be a pretty good marksman to hit Galahad's brain," the burly man said with a grin.

Galahad muttered something venomous in Bors's direction, but Arthur was surprised when the young man looked at him with more amusement than anger.

"C'mon pup, you know it's true," Gawain said, his manner so easygoing that when he got to his feet and held out a hand, Galahad took it and let himself be hauled to his feet. "You might want to get Tristan off the roof, too," the stocky blond remarked to his Commander. "Leave him up there too long and he's likely to roost for the night."

"Would be more comfortable than our previous accommodations," Tristan said, sliding down the shingles and dropping lightly to the ground. Brushing his tangled hair from his eyes, he addressed Arthur with absolutely no remorse for ignoring orders. "The Saxons came in from the east," he said confidently. "Went through the fence then took out the barracks. One of your lot must have lobbed a grenade through the hatch, and those who followed were taken down quickly. Short sweet and pointless."

"You got all that from a couple of minutes reconnaissance?" Arthur phrased it as a question, but he had no doubt the huntsman spoke the truth.

Tristan shrugged. "Spent half my life tracking hare, fox and the like. Working out where a bloody great tank came from isn't much of a stretch. Even Bors could do it."

"Watch it," the older man grumbled without rancor. Getting to his feet he rolled his broad shoulders and looked at Arthur seriously. "Might want to listen to the psycho son of a bitch though. Saxons are messing with your boys, make no mistake about that." He studied his Commander for a moment. "Sir."

Arthur let his eyes rove over the men that he had been put in charge of. Only a couple of hours ago he'd wondered whether putting a bullet to the lot of them, Lancelot included, might have been the kindest option. Now…

"Drop it," he said to Tristan, gesturing towards his gun. The Samartian did as he was told without question, and Arthur nodded towards the rest of his strange band of men before setting out towards the dining hall. "I don't know about you lot, but I need a drink.


End file.
